Page 13 of Racing for Redemption
My heart beats erratically. Each beat seems to echo the taunts and jeers from social media, the cruel words seeping into my veins like poison, and making me wonder if this is even worth it.
“You okay?” James asks, eyeing me warily.
I grunt, staring out the window, neon lights passing by in a blur as the hotel shrinks in the rearview mirror, and I can’t shake the image of Violet’s defeated posture. I mirror it without even putting in an effort.
“Think any F1 teams will still take me after today’s mess?” I mutter as I fiddle with the helm of my T-shirt.
The hum of the car's engine is all there is. Empty. Vague. Cold. And James’ silence is the punchline.
I clench my jaw, anger bubbling up. “It wasn’t even my fault. Those Vortex bastards took me out on purpose.”
James sighs, his gaze flicking to me before returning to the road. “Liam, even if it’s true, you can’t prove that.”
“Come on, James. You saw it. That wasn’t racing, that was a hit job." I face him. "Trust me, man! That fucker dive-bombedinto my car. No one approaches a turn that way unless they wanna die, or take someone else out.”
The streetlights flicker across his face, casting shadows that make him look older, more tired. “Maybe. But accusing Vortex and their F2 academy team without actual proof won’t do you any favors. You’re just inviting more criticism, and you’ll look desperate.”
I slump in my seat, frustration coiling in my gut. “So what, I’m just supposed to roll over and take it? Wasn't there any radio chatter from their side we can use to support what I just said?”
"Unfortunately, they were tight-lipped about that during the race. They were speaking in what we can only assume was code, but then again, they were using racing lingo, so we can't just accuse them of something that sounds only slightly suspicious."
"So, I'm royally fucked, is that what it is?"
“No, but—” James hesitates, then plows on. “Look, forget those guys, they're a lost cause. About that altercation with Violet Colton…”
My cheeks burn at the memory. “What about it?”
“It was harsh, Liam. And not just to her. You’re burning bridges left and right. Everyone saw that.”
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. The image of Violet Colton at the bar flashes through my mind again. I should have apologized.
James’ voice softens. “I know you’re upset, but lashing out won’t help. At this rate, even reserve driver spots might be off the table.”
The truth of his words hits like a punch to the gut. I close my eyes, fighting the sting of tears. “So, that’s it, then? All the hard work, and it’s all for nothing? A decade of sacrifices for nothing?”
James doesn’t immediately answer. When he does, his voice is heavy. “I don’t know, Liam. But right now, no one on the F1 paddock wants to touch you. You’re damaged goods.”
Damaged goods.I went from a promising talent in my first F2 season to damaged goods in my third.
I slump lower in the seat, my mind racing. I’m always the bridesmaid, seeing my dream of F1 slipping further away with each passing season. And now this—a meltdown in the paddock for all to see as the cherry on top. I’ve reached extra levels of recklessness. No. Stupidity.
“But, we’ll figure something out,” James says, his tone carefully neutral. “There are still options—”
“Like what?” I snap. “Begging for a seat with a desperate backmarker team? Racing in Formula E or being dragged to DTM? Being shipped to Super Formula in Japan?”
James sighs. “William, you’re one of the most talented drivers I’ve ever worked with, if notthemost. But talent isn’t always enough in this sport. We need to be smart, strategic. You need sponsors. You need results. And you’ve been too eager, desperate even. And because of that, you’ve been more reckless than ever." He sighs. "As you can tell, that isn’t paying off like it does withother drivers.”
I turn to stare out the window again, watching the Abu Dhabi skyline blur past. James is right. But knowing that doesn’t ease the ache in my chest, the gnawing fear that I’ve blown my shot at Formula 1.
Violet Colton’s face flashes in my mind again. The weariness in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hand as she gripped that glass. For a moment, a sense of kinship settles over me.
Two people drowning in a sea of expectations and disappointments.
Two people mocked left and right in the paddock.
Two people desperately searching for redemption.
It’s almost ironic how similar we are. She’s trying to save her backmarker team, and here I am, trying to save my ass and find a seat in Formula 1, as everyone avoids me like the plague.
